Uncle William came out, smoothing his neckerchief. It was a new one, blue like the sky. “I was fixin’ up a little to go see her. Do I look to suit you?” He moved nearer in the dusk with a kind of high pride. The tufts of hair stood erect on his round head, the neckerchief had a breezy knot with fluttering ends, and the coat hung from his great shoulders like a sail afloat.
The artist looked him over admiringly. “You’re great!” he said. “How did you come to know enough not to change?”
“I’ve changed everything!” declared Uncle William. His air of pride drooped a little.
The artist laughed out. “I mean you kept your same kind of clothes. A good many people, when they come down here to New York, try to dress like other folks—get new things.”
Uncle William’s face cleared. He looked down his great bulk with a smile. “I like my own things,” he said. “I feel to home in ’em.”
XIII
Uncle William found the door of the studio, and bent to examine the card tacked on the panel. “Sergia Lvova, Teacher of Piano and Violin.”
He knocked gently.
“Come in.” The call came clear and straight.